


Something New

by socknonny



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 07:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14303418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socknonny/pseuds/socknonny
Summary: When Steve is partnered with Billy for a school project, he doesn't expect anything to change between them. But things that are important--things that are real--are always the most difficult to understand.





	Something New

**Author's Note:**

> Well, guess you can't keep me away from this ship. I'd better just embrace it.

“Partners will be alphabetical,” Steve’s teacher finished, snapping him out of a pleasant daydream.

Steve stared at the front of the room. That was fine, really—great, even. It just meant that he'd be partnered with Billy Hargrove now, no big deal. What was wrong with that? The guy had only smashed Steve's face in and nearly killed him three weeks ago—don’t sweat it.

The teachers knew that. Everybody knew that, because when Steve had dropped Dustin off at school and Hargrove had started walking towards them with that unreadable expression—to do what, Steve still didn't know—Dustin had yelled at him to back the fuck off, leave Steve alone. Didn't take much for gossip to do the rest.

But no, sure, do alphabetical. That way the teachers won't have to deal with _arguments_ when people can't partner up. Shit, wouldn't want an argument.

On the other side of the room, Hargrove had frozen still, restless fingers still looped through his necklace but for once on pause. Steve watched him, counted the seconds before he moved again—eight—and then let out the breath he'd been holding while he waited for… what? A reaction? But all Hargrove had done was slide the chain up between his lips and continue rolling the pendant between his fingers. Hardly a reaction.

Apart from that one time when Dustin had interrupted them, Hargrove hadn't looked at Steve in three weeks. Steve supposed this project wasn't going to change anything, and Hargrove would just either fail or do the work on his own.

But when class ended and Steve had finally dragged himself out of his seat, Hargrove was standing right in front of him.

“How do you wanna do this, Harrington?”

He was leaning back against the desk in front of Steve, hands shoved in his pockets, and Steve still couldn't read the expression on his face.

“Just split the work, yeah?” Steve looked down at the assignment sheet. “You do part A and I'll do—ah, shit.” He trailed off.

When he looked up again, Hargrove was smiling, but it was rough and uneven. It was like he was laughing at someone's expense, except it looked oddly as if that someone might actually be himself.

“Gotta integrate perspectives,” he said, and Steve was reminded sharply that Hargrove actually knew what he was doing in this class.

Steve didn't. Steve didn't have a clue.

“Right.” Steve stared down at the paper like it might hold the answers. “Well, you write out your part and I'll do mine, and then we can meet at school and—"

Hargrove made a rude noise. Steve didn't have to look to know he was rolling his eyes.

“I'm not going to hurt you.”

Hargroves fingers were twitching, then, like they had been around his necklace before. He wouldn't look at Steve.

“I'm not afraid of you,” Steve said, because he wasn't. Just didn't mean he wanted to spend any time with the shithead.

Hargrove grinned, bitter and cold. He pushed away from the desk.

“It's a date, then,” he drawled. “I'll come over to yours tonight. We’ll knock it out in an hour, and you'll never have to talk to me again, pretty boy.”

Then he was gone before Steve could even think about which part he wanted to protest.

Later that day, when school was over and Steve was sitting in his car, gathering the energy to give Hargrove his address, he realised something: Hargrove was nervous. That was why he wouldn't look at Steve. That had been the expression on his face when he'd tried to approach Steve that day less than twenty-four hours after he'd beaten Steve to a pulp.

He'd barely had time to process that thought when someone had pulled up behind him and leant down on the horn. Someone whose engine rumbled so loud, Steve could feel it in his chest. Someone whose music was blaring and who was grinning like a predator into Steve’s rear-view mirror.

Some strange part of Steve wanted to laugh, it was just so… predictable. Instead, he saluted Hargrove’s reflection, reversed out of his park, and led the way home.

Steve knew he lived in a better house than most of his friends; he wasn't an idiot. Normally, he loved their reactions the first time they saw his place. There was awe, envy, respect, followed by never-ending requests for parties and hangouts.

Today was the first time Steve had ever felt embarrassed. Hargrove’s eyes widened when he stepped out of the car, but it wasn't in awe. He looked shocked, briefly, before a kind of resignation slid across his features.

“Your parents home?”

There was caution in that simple question. With his ripped Metallica shirt, tight jeans and scuffed boots, Steve thought he could understand why.

“Nope.”

Relief. Faint, but there.

“How about a tour, then?” Hargrove leaned back against the car, lips curving into a slow, lazy smile.

“You don’t want to just get this over with?”

“And miss all that King Steve’s Palace has to offer?”

Steve rolled his eyes and turned away. He was viscerally aware of Hargrove falling into step behind him, as if Hargrove’s breath was right on the back of his neck even though Hargrove was several feet behind. He felt almost like prey leading a wolf into his home.

Suddenly, the pristine walls and furniture held new meaning for Steve. He saw them through someone else’s eyes for the first time, and he wasn’t comforted by what he saw. It was as if his home was suddenly a barrier, separating him from Hargrove in a way that even that fight hadn’t managed to do.

Normally quick to speak, Hargrove was strangely quiet as he walked through the foyer and looked around. It felt a little like a dream, seeing him in Steve’s private space. He kept waiting for the dream to shift, for Hargrove to start whaling on him with that primal grin streaked with blood, because surely the only dream he could have with Hargrove was a nightmare.

But nothing changed. Hargrove looked at the paintings on the wall, the decorative bowls in each room that were filled with fruit or potpourri or nothing at all, the furniture that looked as though no one ever sat in it. He picked up a few of the dried rose petals from the bowl on the coffee table and sniffed them, grimacing.

“What is this shit?”

It was imported potpourri from France; his mother had insisted on a bowl in his bedroom for weeks. Steve stared at the bowl in Hargrove’s hands, and it was like he’d never seen it before in his life.

“No goddamn idea.”

Hargrove snorted. He dropped the petals on the floor and turned away.

Steve dumped his bag on the kitchen table and started pulling out his books. It was the only place he felt comfortable working, since every other room felt like a display room, like the kitchen was the only room that had any life in it.

Hargrove pulled out the chair opposite Steve, spun it around, and sat down on it with his legs straddling each side of the back.

“So, it’s an opinion piece, right?” Steve asked, taking out the assignment sheet and staring at it, more as an excuse not to look into those piercing blue eyes than because he needed to read it again.

“Right.” Hargrove slid a cigarette out of his pack and stuck it between his lips, but he didn’t light it.

Steve waited for him to ask if he could smoke or to just do it anyway, but he did neither. Steve counted the seconds, hit eight, and then cracked.

“You got something to say?”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d meant to say that Hargrove could smoke inside if he wanted. The other had just come out.

Slowly, Hargrove grinned. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Steve wanted to ask what had happened that day when Dustin had told him to fuck off, but he couldn’t. Something stopped him, and so he took out his notebook instead and started working on the first question.

The dream continued for the next hour as they worked on answering each question together—without arguing, without insults. They had to build a profile of each character in their text analysis, their own viewpoints intertwining to create something that wasn’t wholly their individual opinion but a fluid argument and breakdown of where their opinions met and where they clashed. They didn’t agree on much, it turned out. But that proved they’d worked together and thought about their answers, so it would probably get them a better grade in the end.

By the end, Steve’s head was swimming. He didn’t _care_ about this assignment, and it was clear that Hargrove didn’t either, but when Steve didn’t care, he also didn’t get it. It was as if Hargrove had already done the assignment. Like it just made sense to him on some gut level, and he didn’t have to think or try—just stared out the kitchen window and played with his unlit cigarette.

“You can light that, you know,” Steve finally said, when he got sick of watching Hargrove periodically twirl it between his fingers and caress it with his lips.

Hargrove lit up immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission, and it didn’t make sense—nothing about this made sense. It left Steve feeling somehow wrong-footed by the sight of smoke curling gently across the face of someone he thought he wanted to punch, but who was sitting so calmly in Steve’s kitchen, asking him questions about characters Steve didn’t remember and didn’t care about, that Steve didn’t know what he wanted to do anymore.

“You don’t really think that dude’s the hero, do you?” Hargrove muttered around the cigarette. “He spends three quarters of the book running around like a little bitch.”

“He’s smart,” Steve said. “Heroes are always smart.”

“Nah.” Hargrove blew out a plume of smoke. It rose between them—higher, higher—and disappeared. “They’re brave.” There was something bitter in his words.

“Can’t be brave without being smart.”

“Actually, I think it helps if you’re a bit of an idiot.”

Steve laughed, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. Hargrove hadn’t taken his eyes away from him, and Steve still couldn’t remember which goddamn characters they were talking about, but he somehow felt like something was starting to make sense.

They got most of it done, and then Hargrove looked at the clock and something dark crossed his face.

“Gotta go.”

“We’re near the end. You don’t want to just finish?”

“Nah. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

And that was that. Steve watched him drive away, music blaring and fingers smacking on the steering wheel with such fury that it was like he wasn’t keeping in time with the music, but the music was keeping him in time with it.

The lights faded into the night, and Steve was left in silence. He thought about the bitterness in Hargrove’s voice as he’d talked about heroes. He thought there might be something there, but he wasn’t smart enough to figure it out.

 

~oOo~

 

The nightmares were worse that night. Instead of demodogs, Steve dreamed of Hargrove. The dream started like any other dream—dark, ominous, but still safe until Hargrove suddenly straddled him, punching his face again and again. Then, just as suddenly, he stood up and fell back, lit a cigarette, and just watched Steve with eyes that seemed to actually see him like no one else did.

When Steve woke up, he realised he was angry, angrier than he had ever been in his life. He got dressed in a blur, drove to school, realised halfway he’d forgotten his books, and just kept driving. He parked his car, strode to the empty spot where the Camaro always sat, and waited.

He’d made it through three cigarettes by the time Hargrove arrived. The expression crossed his face again—nervous, Steve knew that now—and then he covered it with an arrogant leer. When he stood up, he slammed the door and leant against the hood.

Steve could see it for what it was now—fake. Weak.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked when he’d dropped the butt and ground it beneath his shoe. “Why’d you hit me like that?”

Hargrove watched him, face impassive. Finally, he laughed a little, looked away.

“Don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Why’d you do it?”

“I. Don’t. Know.” He ground the words between his teeth.

“Was that what you were going to tell me, that day? When you tried to talk to me?”

Hargrove’s expression flickered with something new. He said nothing.

Steve waited, counted the seconds, and then left him there. He didn’t see him again until the end of the day, when the Camaro appeared in his rear-view mirror, Led Zeppelin blasting from the windows.

He led the way home.

He wanted to fight. He wanted to throw Hargrove against the front door and hit him again and again. He didn’t.

They sat at the kitchen table and worked.

“Why do you think _he’s_ the hero?” Steve asked, when they were nearly finished and it didn’t matter anymore. “He runs outside and gets killed in seconds.”

“He’s the only one who knew what was really out there.”

“Exactly. He was an idiot. He knew what was waiting for him, and he just charged in there.”

“If he was the only one who really understood the danger, then he was the only one who was really afraid.” Hargrove spoke slowly, like he was trying to explain something very simple to someone very young.

“He failed.”

“Still did it anyway.”

It hit Steve then, what Hargrove was saying—for the other characters, it hadn’t meant anything. By the time they’d figured out what was happening, they had enough information to save everyone without getting into danger. They’d saved the world, but they weren’t heroes, not to Hargrove. They were too smart.

Hargrove was smart.

Steve frowned, lit a cigarette, and wished he had the brains to figure out what he was missing. Nancy would know, but she wasn’t here, and he didn’t know how to ask her.

Hargrove held out his hand, and Steve passed him the pack without thinking. It was almost friendly, these last two nights. It was almost a shame it had to end.

His dream came flooding back to him, and he clenched his fists, anger coursing through him. Hargrove’s eyes dropped to Steve’s hands and then back up to his face. He exhaled, smoke rising between them, and watched Steve with interest.

“You’re like two different people,” Steve said finally.

Hargrove’s eyebrows rose. “That right, princess?”

Steve grimaced. He wanted to say something stupid, something like “I don’t know which one is real”, but he didn’t. He was pretty sure that kind of thing would get him punched again.

“I’m sorry for whaling on you,” Hargrove said into the silence, and it was like time stood still.

Steve looked at him, and then found he couldn’t look away. Even if he did, he knew he could never forget this. Blue eyes and smoke—that was all he was going to see for the rest of his life.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I lost—” Hargrove broke off, his face twisting into something bitter, something nervous. “I lost control.”

“Do you even have any control?”

He laughed, and it was real. “I used to.”

“Why are you sorry?”

Hargrove frowned, took a drag, waited.

“Are you sorry because you hit me, or because you lost control?”

Steve wasn’t smart, but he was getting there. He knew this was important, even if he didn’t know why.

Hargrove swallowed. “At first, because I lost control. But now—” He stopped.

Blue eyes and smoke.

A noise from the back door made them jump, sending Steve’s heartrate through the roof. When he looked over, he could see it was only a branch. It had fallen from a nearby tree—must be from the recent storms—and hit the glass on the way down, Steve could see this, but it was like he couldn’t process it, he was already too full of adrenaline from the strangeness of these last two nights. His heartrate climbed. In his mind’s eye, he saw demodogs prowling in the forest beyond his back door, smelled the stench of their breath.

Hargrove was saying something, but Steve couldn’t hear it.

Eventually, he realised someone was shaking him, realised it could only be one person.

When he finally came back to himself, the blue eyes were filled with fear, the smoke long gone.

“Christ.” Hargrove exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “I thought you’d fucking lost it.”

“I think I have,” Steve said before he could stop himself.

He thought he might have lost it a long time ago.

Maybe Steve had just the right amount of stupidity to be a hero, but being a hero wasn’t all it was cut out to be.

Hargrove just stared at him.

Steve checked the time. It was late, and they were finished anyway. Hargrove’s face paled when he realised how late it was, but he said nothing and Steve didn’t ask.

Just before he left, Hargrove stood beside him on the front step, staring out into the night.

“I’m sorry I hit you, man,” he said, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for his necklace or light another cigarette. “You didn’t deserve that shit.”

He walked away without looking back.

The lights of the Camaro faded; Steve watched the spot where they disappeared for a very long time.

 

~oOo~

 

They got an A on their project. Steve hadn’t got an A in English in… possibly ever. Hargrove just screwed the paper up and threw it straight in the bin.

They had no reason to talk anymore, no reason to be near each other, but Hargrove didn’t go back to keeping the distance he had before. Neither did he go back to the intensity he’d had with Steve before the fight.

They knocked it into each other on the basketball court, traded insults in the locker room, watched each other in the hallway. It was normal, bearable. It didn’t make Steve think about the fight.

Not much made him think about the fight anymore; the memory had shifted into a different part of his mind. It still made him angry, still wasn’t fair, but neither was what he’d done—tried to do—to Jonathon. And Hargrove had tried to help him the other night. He could have made fun of Steve for having a panic attack, but he hadn’t. He’d tried to shake him out of it. He’d been worried.

It was like there were two sides to Billy Hargrove, and Steve didn’t understand either of them.

A week passed, and they managed to maintain this strange, new relationship. They weren’t quite friends, but they weren’t… what they had been before.

On Thursday, Steve had another panic attack. Some kid dragged their nails down the blackboard in English, and he’d thought… he’d heard claws and thought they were back, prowling along the hallway outside, waiting for him.

He went rigid, gripping his desk so tightly his knuckles went white. Across the room, he saw Hargrove look over at him and go still. Their eyes met, and Hargrove took a slow, deliberate breath. Steve mimicked it.

Slowly, he came back to normal.

Steve thought about the comments the teacher had left on their work—insightful, complex, a real exploration of what it means to be a hero. Hargrove was too smart to be a hero by his own definition. Smart meant you knew the danger; being a hero meant you dived in anyway.

Hargrove was too afraid. What was he afraid of?

At the end of the day, Hargrove was waiting at his locker.

“You good?”

The rough drawl used to make Steve tense, on edge. Now it reminded him of something different: blue eyes, smoke.

“Yeah. Why?”

Hargrove shrugged, still blocking Steve from getting into his locker. He showed no signs of moving.

“You didn’t seem too good before.”

“I’m better now.”

Hargrove looked unconvinced, but he moved aside. Steve shoved his books in and grabbed his bag.

“My mom used to get those.”

Steve’s head whipped around of its own accord, and Hargrove looked almost as shocked as he felt, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

He ran his tongue along his teeth and kept talking, that now-familiar bitter twist to his lips.  “Took me a few years to figure out why.”

Maybe it was the strangeness of it all, the way Steve felt like he had slipped back into that dream they had shared those two days when they were working on the project. Maybe it was just curiosity. Whatever it was, he opened his mouth before he could second-guess himself.

“Want to come over?”

Hargrove’s eyes slid to his.

“To do homework,” Steve clarified, though he wasn’t sure that was what he’d meant at all.

After a beat, Hargrove leered. “Looking for a study buddy, Harrington?”

“Just offering. Take it or leave it, dickhead.”

“It’s a date.”

Hargrove had said those words to him before, but for some reason, this time, they stirred up something hot and tight inside Steve.

Instead of waiting, Hargrove pulled out of the parking lot first, and Steve followed the Camaro home.

They sat at the kitchen table, same as before, but neither made a move for their books.

“Want a beer?” Steve asked finally, and Hargrove just grinned and lit up a cigarette.

Soon, they were sitting out by the pool, lying back on deck chairs and drinking.

“Do you think you’ll stay in Hawkins?” Steve asked. “After graduating, I mean?”

Hargrove seemed like the kind of guy who’d stay in Hawkins forever, but now that Steve thought about it, he was too smart for that. And he hadn’t been born in Hawkins. For the first time, he wondered what Hargrove had been like in California.

Hargrove sculled the rest of his beer, crushed the can in his fist, and burped. “Fuck no.”

Steve laughed.

“The second I get that diploma,” Hargrove continued, staring up at the sky. “I’m driving the fuck out of here and not looking back.”

Something twisted in Steve’s stomach, but it didn’t make sense, so he ignored it.

“What about you, pretty boy? You got your future all laid out?”

Hargrove’s voice was quieter now. It suited the emptiness of the night, the sheer vastness of the stars above them.

“Yeah,” Steve said automatically, then, “No. I don’t know.”

He thought he heard Hargrove laugh, but it was so soft, he couldn’t be sure.

“Maybe you should do what I’m doing,” Hargrove suggested. “Just drive. Don’t look back.”

For a second, the image of Steve sitting in Hargrove’s Camaro burst into his mind. The music blared, the engine rumbled, and something heavy in Steve’s chest lifted away.

Could he do it? Could he leave Hawkins, knowing what waited out there in the dark? What if something happened to the people he left behind?

The heavy thing resettled, and the stars didn’t seem quite as bright.

“I don’t know,” he repeated.

He couldn’t leave because he knew what was out there, and he was just stupid enough to charge out and fight it.

Hargrove was smart enough to know what was out there, but he didn’t know; that wasn’t what he was running from. What was he afraid of?

He hadn’t realised he’d asked the question out loud until Hargrove answered.

“Too many things.”

When Steve looked over, Hargrove was twisting his necklace between his fingers. His shirt was unbuttoned to his naval, and his eyes were reflecting stars as he stared out into the forest.

Blue eyes and stars; that was another thing he knew he’d remember forever.

Something in the forest cried out, and Steve froze.

Within seconds, Hargrove was at his side.

“You’ve got this, Harrington.”

Steve felt the quiet drawl deep inside his chest, even if he couldn’t answer.

“Breathe. You’re safe. Nothing’s happening.”

Steve’s heartbeat rose, but for the first time, he found himself able to turn away from the forest. He knew what was out there, knew that the only way to fight it was to just charge in and do it. But for the first time, he thought of something else: blue eyes and stars. Know what’s out there; don’t fight. Think first.

_You’re safe._

Slowly, the panic faded, but it took long, long minutes before Steve felt normal again. Hargrove was holding his hand. His fingers were warm and gentle.

Steve pulled back, and Hargrove withdrew into the shadow. After a moment, the flame lit up from Hargrove’s lighter, faded, gave way to the soft glow of his cigarette. It was nearly time for Hargrove to leave, but Steve didn’t want him to go.

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

The glow flared red; smoke drifted between them.

“I gotta go.”

“I know.”

Steve stayed by the pool and heard the car disappear, like thunder rumbling in the distance.

 

~oOo~

 

Hargrove didn’t come to school the next day or the day after that. Steve waited for him in the parking lot for two days, and by the third day, when the Camaro didn’t show, he went searching for Max.

“Where’s Billy?”

The name sounded strange on his tongue, but he didn’t want to say ‘Hargrove’, not to Max, not when he was worried like this. Something about the way Billy had said “too many things”, staring out into the night, had stuck with him.

Max wouldn’t look at him. “Dunno,” she mumbled.

“Max.” Steve tried to sound authoritative when he was really just shit scared.

Max looked all around, like she was expecting someone to be listening. “He’s home.”

“Is he sick?”

She shook her head, but her eyes were staring into his soul, trying to tell him something. He wasn’t smart enough for this.

“I’m gonna cut school,” he said slowly, watching her reaction.

She nodded vigorously. “His window is on the left. First one.”

“Right.”

He backed away. Max didn’t break eye contact, and Steve could feel the walls of the dream dropping down around him again. It lasted the whole drive to Billy’s house. Every stop light, every corner, felt like he was drifting in his sleep, like some bubble had descended and trapped him in a place where anything could happen.

The dream burst apart when he looked through the window and saw Billy huddled on the floor. He didn’t know whether he should intrude, but some part of him had already made the decision and was tapping on the window.

Billy looked up at him. He saw Steve there and just stared and stared until Steve thought he was going to have to break in and do something drastic because Billy had clearly lost it. But then he stood up and crossed the room, opened the window, and turned away.

Steve climbed in.

“Your parents home?” he asked in a whisper.

Billy shook his head, still not looking at him. Steve could see a mottled collection of red and blue across his shoulders. He stared at it, frowning, and slowly the dots connected. He remembered talking about heroes and the way Billy’s voice sounded when it was bitter and full of things that Steve still didn’t understand, even if he was beginning to.

_They’re brave._

Billy was afraid of too many things; he was too smart not to fear them.

“You know, sometimes you can’t fight,” Steve said.

Billy turned to look at him. His eyes were a little wild, a little crazy, just like they had been that night in the Byers’ kitchen. A few more dots connected.

“You mean it’s all right to be a scared little piece of shit?” Billy said, walking slowly towards Steve. “Is that what you’re telling me, Harrington?” His hands were twitching like they were searching for a cigarette, but he didn’t light one.

“It’s smart to be scared.”

Billy’s mouth twisted. “Smart,” he echoed.

“Smart not to fight.”

Billy watched him and said nothing.

Steve took a deep breath and wondered if he was about to get punched. “Brave not to run.”

Billy’s breath hitched.

After long, long moments, the wild look in Billy’s eye faded a little. He sat down on the bed, elbows resting on his knees. Steve sat down next to him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Billy finally said. “Standing up to him doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t change anything. ‘S as useless as fighting would be.”

“You still do it anyway.”

Billy’s eyebrows rose, and Steve felt caught in those blue eyes.

“Bit stupid, really,” Steve said to lighten the mood.

Then his brain caught up with his mouth, and his stomach dropped.

But Billy’s face broke into a smile, and it was real.

The dream descended again as they settled back against the wall, barely a foot between them. They stared up at the ceiling as they talked, halting at first, and then quicker as they realised they followed the same basketball team, liked some of the same music even.

Steve thought of blue eyes and smoke, blue eyes and stars. He thought he might have another memory, if he just had the guts to turn and look.

He stared at the ceiling, heart racing, until the light from the window had disappeared and Billy told him quietly that he had to leave.

Steve looked back when he was out the window, but while he could imagine blue eyes and stars, it was too dark for him to see anything more than a silhouette.

 

~oOo~

 

“Partners are alphabetical,” their English teacher said, passing out the new assignment sheets.

Steve looked over at Billy. Billy grinned at him, the necklace shining from in between his lips.

They raced each other out of the parking lot, Billy overtaking him at the last second and speeding ahead, music blaring so loud that Steve’s car rattled from the vibrations. His parents were away again, and they left their books on the kitchen table and went out to the pool, stripping off to their boxers and jumping into the warm water.

Billy’s bruises were healing, but they were still visible—yellow and blue across his shoulders and ribs.

Billy caught him staring and ran his tongue across his teeth. “Don’t get sappy on me now, Harrington. They’re just bruises.”

Still, Billy shifted uncomfortably and looked away, then swam to the edge to get another can of beer.

Steve caught the can Billy threw him and swam to the ledge on the other side where he could sit. He could watch the trees from this side, be the first to attack.

“What’s in the woods?” Billy swam over and sat next to him.

“Monsters,” Steve said, still staring ahead.

Billy didn’t laugh. Steve could hear how his own voice sounded; he wouldn’t have laughed either.

Slowly, Billy stretched his arms over the edge of the pool and looked up at the sky. His hair clung to his shoulders, sending droplets of water running down his arms.

“Smart to keep a lookout,” he said finally. “No need to run in there; be ready when they come to you.”

Steve laughed, but he could hear the bitterness in it. “Can’t always be ready.”

“Can’t always run in there.”

Steve stared at the trees—they were silent, unmoving. Finally, consciously, he forced himself to relax and lean back against the edge. The warmth of Billy’s forearm brushed against his neck.

He looked over; Billy was already watching him. His eyes dropped to Steve’s mouth, and the tight heat in Steve’s stomach twisted again, making him shiver.

Billy smiled. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he murmured, which would make no sense except that Steve was thinking the same thing.

He leaned forward, the water rippling around them as Billy moved as well, and then they were kissing. It was soft at first, gentler than he would have thought possible except that he knew it was because of fear, not tenderness. Then, when neither of them pulled away, something changed. Steve could feel both of their hearts racing where their chests were pressed together, warm and wet from the pool. He pushed Billy back against the edge and grinned when he felt those lips curve up in amused delight.

Steve spared only a few seconds to wonder where the hell this had come from, and then, how the hell he hadn’t realised sooner, before he let go of everything and kissed Billy properly. Like it meant something. Like it was real.

Billy moaned, the sound low and gravelly, and he lowered his hands to Steve’s hips, toying with the elastic of his boxers, asking, waiting.

That was a great idea— _brilliant_ idea—so Steve pulled Billy’s boxers down to his thighs and reached for him, gripping him loosely and sliding his fist up and down.

Billy’s eyes fell shut even as he mirrored Steve’s movements, pulling him closer and jerking him off in slow, languid movements.

It was nothing like Steve was used to. He wasn’t worried about doing it wrong or moving things too fast—it felt good, right. Billy’s face had relaxed completely, revealing something new that Steve had never imagined. He leaned down and kissed him again, deepening it when he felt Billy respond with tongue and a wicked smirk.

Billy opened his eyes and pulled Steve closer, so that he was forced to kneel against the ledge Billy was sitting on, straddling him.

“That’s better,” Billy grinned, bringing his other hand up to Steve’s hair and twisting his head back so he could reach his neck.

Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever been kissed on the neck like this before. He tried not to be too loud, but Billy’s tongue and teeth were so insistent, such a mix of heat and tenderness and _sharpness_ , that he was soon crying out. He twisted his wrist, slowing down his own movements until he could feel Billy shuddering against him, losing his rhythm against Steve’s neck—coming undone.

With a moan that ended with teeth against Steve’s jaw, Billy spilled over into his hand, thrusting beneath him. He didn’t even pause; his hand sped up around Steve, rough and messy and perfect.

“Come for me, Harrington,” he drawled, low and rough.

Steve fell forward, bracing himself against the edge of the pool, and groaned as he spilled over too.

After a few moments, Billy began kissing Steve’s neck again, sweeping up to cover his jaw and lips. Steve gripped the back of his neck and kissed him harder, deeper, relishing the way Billy stiffened in surprise before he met the pace with hungry delight.

Finally, they pulled back for air, flushed and happy in a way Steve hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

He blinked, looking down at the water between them.

“Probably should get this cleaned.”

Billy tipped his head back and laughed. When he looked back up at Steve, his eyes were bright and shining with laughter.

Blue eyes and laugher—another memory.

They climbed out of the pool and lay down side by side to dry in the sun. The forest was in front of them, and when Billy saw Steve looking into it, he reached over and took Steve’s hand in his.

The forest was in front of them, Billy’s house was far away, and they had something new. Something a little brave, a little stupid, but that made sense in a way that only clever things could.

Whatever it was, they were doing it anyway.


End file.
